Maybe I'll die
by Phoenix-Flower92
Summary: Cody Martin's life seemed perfect. But then the depression hit.
1. Next to impossible

What would I give to feel again. For my indifferent, defeated point of view to transform into something new—anything new. Any emotion would be welcomed. Anything but apathy.

I let out a small pathetic breath as I sat in my Algebra class wishing that time would freeze. I did not want the last bell to ring. I did not want sixth period to end. I did not want it to be Friday. I did not want to return home.

It was most certainly not that I loved school, because in truth I hated it. I just hated home more. The clock ticked away, and soon lively chatter began to fill the room. Any second, the bell would ring, and the school day—the school week—would be history.

Internally I moaned, inhaling and exhaling deeply and slowly to keep my composure. I was a boy. A teenage boy. And because of this I could not cry.

It did not matter that my life had crumbled underneath me. It did not matter that the light at the end of the tunnel would probably be an incoming train. No one cared that motivation and I were no longer best friends. None of it mattered. Crying about everything would only make it all worse. Two million times worse, even. So I would not cry. Not in public. Not at school, not in front of people. I would save it as my lullaby, my bedtime story. Crying would soothe me into slumber.

Sluggishly I gathered my belongings as the bell rang and the class rocketed out into the hallways. I took my time, like I always did. I hoped that I would miss the bus. That was the best thing that could actually occur.

But even with my toddler-like steps, the buses were still outside, still waiting, just laughing at me and mocking me, challenging me to return home and face my nightmares. I gritted my teeth and sighed, boarding the very object that so obviously hated me. If only the feeling could have been mutual.

I found an empty seat halfway down the aisle and slumped into it, a frown locked on my features. I could not remember the last time that I had smiled. The task seemed impossible. It didn't help that my temples had begun a dull throbbing. I knew that by the time I reached the Tipton, they would have graduated to a sharp, intense pain.

I closed my eyes, attempting to enter an oblivious world, trying to forget all that was bothering me.

But that was next to impossible.


	2. Upside down

I'm not really sure when exactly it was that my life began falling apart. It's not like one morning I awoke and shrieked, 'my life's a mess!' because, well, that is not how it happened.

I suppose it was a gradual process, one specific step-back after another. It began as a rain shower on summer's day or flurries sprinkled from the sky for the first snow of the season. Somehow it got out of control, though, and it evolved into a thunderstorm, a hurricane, a wicked tornado or a massive earthquake. Now everything is upside-down and backwards, and I have no idea how to fix it. I'm just a kid still! I'm just sixteen! I am too young for this!

The school bus shuddered to a halt in front of the hotel. Like a zombie I stood, stepping out into the aisle and stumbling to the doors. Behind me someone followed, but that didn't matter. Just another body, another being.

I entered the Tipton, walking straight to one of the many soft couches, slamming my backpack down on the floor, and slouching down into one of the cushions. I wasn't prepared to return to the suite yet.

"Hey, Cody!" A voice called out from across the hotel.

I grunted a 'hey' as I stared at the floor. The result? Footsteps headed towards me, and Maddie Fitzpatrick was suddenly standing in front of me.

"Cody, are you okay?"

I wish I knew. I wish I knew that I would be okay, that everything would be okay, that life would return to normal, that conditions would improve. But I didn't know. I didn't know at all.

"You should get back to your shift," I informed her, as I glanced over her shoulder to see a waiting customer standing at the candy counter.

Maddie too looked behind her, and sighed. "Come with me," she suggested.

I narrowed my eyes, "To the candy counter?"

She nodded, "I'd like to know what's wrong."

"I'd like to just sit here." I responded with a scowl, and she seemed taken aback.

It was so unlike me, to be blunt and rude and angry all the time. I'd definitely noticed a change in my attitude lately; I would not deny it. I _was_ moody; I _was_ bitter; I _was _annoyed and stressed.

"Okay, well…I'll talk to you later? I'm sorry you're having a bad day."

She turned and left, returning to her job, but she was wrong. She was entirely wrong. It wasn't a bad day; it was a bad _life_.

I sat in the lobby for I don't even remember how long, just watching the people who came in and out, observing their actions and occasionally listening in to what they were saying. Then, after a while, I reached into my backpack and began my homework. I had to do my homework in the lobby; otherwise, it wouldn't get done. I wouldn't do it if I waited until I reached the suite. I just wouldn't. Not anymore, not in my upside-down universe.

Once my homework was finished, I stood up and stretched, grabbing my backpack and heading for the elevators. The time had come to return upstairs, to the suite I called home, yet I walked with a frown twisted on my features. The elevator couldn't ascend slowly enough, and even I myself couldn't walk any slower as I reached my floor. Reaching the room, I flipped out the key and slid it into the knob to open the door to the chaos waiting for me.


	3. Weight of the world

I used to be happy. I remember being happy. Vaguely, of course, but I do remember. Life seemed so perfect, so great. Everything I pursued was mine; I had everything that I wanted.

But looking at the mess before me, I was not happy. Used-up tissues decorated the tables by the couch, and several had fallen in order to decorate the floor as well. The floor itself hadn't been swept since the last time _I'd_ swept it, which happened to be several weeks ago.

The kitchen sink was clogged, as the people I lived with were under the delusion that we had a garbage disposal; plates, cups, bowls, pots, and pans of all sorts cluttered the kitchen, and most had food from nights previous crusted to them. The kitchen table was no different—it too was covered with dirty dishes, but with an addition. It also had dozens of medicine bottles, all scattered about.

A depression settled over me as I set my backpack down randomly. There was no use to put it in my room—then I would really never find it. I sighed, wondering what to fix for dinner. If I didn't fix anything, one of two things would occur: there would be no dinner, or we would automatically get noodles. And I was sick to death of noodles. I needed _real_ food. But what I needed more was my life back.

I knew I was being harsh, it was just…the stress of everything was killing me. I constantly feared about developing gray hairs, about developing ulcers that would explode. I had to do everything, and that was too much!

"Hey, Mom!" I called out to the blanket-shaped form of my mother on the couch. She moaned in response, "Did you go to the doctor today?"

"Doctors don't know anything; they're not helpful!" She snapped.

"So…you did go, but they didn't help?" I questioned as I took out a pan and sprayed it with Pam. I'd decided on Macaroni and Cheese.

"Just a waste of money." She complained.

Mom had been sick for a month straight now, and she was sick of being sick. She wasn't the only one. I was sick of it, too, and so was my brother. But my brother, Zack, he didn't care about helping out the situation. It 'wasn't his responsibility.' He refused to do anything. And Mom, though she felt bad, I knew that she dramatized. She had her good days and bad days, and even on good days she did absolutely nothing.

No one knew what was wrong with her. She said she couldn't breathe, and she had red blotches breaking out all over her face. She said she couldn't smell anything, and 'everything tasted like crap.'

I was trying my best to help her, but no matter what I did, no matter _how_ much I did for her, she still accused me of doing nothing. I couldn't do anything about this. What was I supposed to do? Sit back and _not_ do anything to help? To prove to her that she had been receiving help up until she'd complained? No. I couldn't do that.


End file.
